Eve stood on tiptoes in the middle of the swirling mob and surveyed the station again. The children had boarded the waiting train, and it started forward with a hiss of steam. Little ones hung from every open window, bravely waving goodbye. Eve heard a cry of anguish from the crowd of mothers and turned to see them huddled together, consoling each other’s tears. They wouldn’t know where their children were until after they’d arrived in the countryside and mailed the postcard each of them carried. But at least they were out of London. They were safe.
“Eve! Eve, darling!” She turned and there he was, pushing his way toward her, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his grin lighting the dismal station.
“Alfie!” She reached for him and they held each other tightly before exchanging a kiss more appropriate for a dark corner than a public place. Eve didn’t care. He had forgiven her. And she loved him. “I didn’t think I would ever find you,” she said when they came up for air. “How long until your train leaves?”
He consulted his expensive wristwatch, a graduation present after Oxford. “Only ten minutes. I was a little hungover this morning and overslept. Walk with me to the platform.” Alfie took her hand and cut a smooth path for them—a knife through butter—as people instinctively stepped aside for him in his officer’s uniform. “I’ve been telling the other lads how beautiful you are, and now they can see for themselves.”
She didn’t want her last moments with him to be spent among a crowd of soldiers, but there was no helping it. Eve longed to tell him she loved him and hear him say he loved her, too. She wanted him to promise to come home safely, promise they would always be together, grow old together. Cross my heart. But too soon it was time for Alfie to board.
“Send me your address as soon as you get there, Alfie. I’ll write every day.”
“Righto. And keep your gas mask with you, darling.” He tugged the cord around her neck that held her boxed mask.
“You, too!” She’d seen the wheezing, gasping veterans of the first war, some with missing limbs. Not Alfie. Please, Lord.
He held her tightly one last time. Kissed her one last time. And just like the departing children, he and the other soldiers boarded the train, heading off in a hiss of steam, their lives about to be altered forever by the demands of war.
WELLINGFORD HALL
Audrey stood on a ladder, stretching as high as she could to pin the thick black cloth to the back of the dining room drapes. “Here’s the next piece,” Mrs. Smith said as she bustled into the room. “Oh, do be careful, Miss Audrey. Maybe you should let Robbins do those tall windows.”
Audrey lowered her arms, rotating her aching neck and shoulders. “I sent him into the village to see about borrowing a wagon for the children. Do we have enough cloth to finish before they arrive?”
“We ran out. And the dry goods store doesn’t expect more from London until next week.”
“I’m not surprised,” Audrey said as she stepped down. “Every cottage and mansion and flat in England needs yards and yards of it.” Making blackout curtains for all of Wellingford’s windows was proving to be an enormous task. And even though it was a necessity of war, Audrey was determined to do a neat job of it and keep the mansion looking elegant, not dim and funereal.
“When we finish this room and Mr. Clarkson’s study, all of the windows on the first floor will be done,” Mrs. Smith told her. “Robbins was able to tape the largest ones so they won’t shatter.”
“What about the second floor?”
“All the bedrooms that are in use are finished. Robbins thought it best to use the remainder of the cloth to do the servants’ rooms on the third floor.”
“I suppose that’s wise. The wardens will pay us a visit one of these nights to see if we’ve complied, and the servants will want to use their rooms after dark.” The few servants who were left, that was. The footmen and undergardeners had all enlisted. The cook had moved to the London town house, leaving only her assistant to prepare meals. Miss Blake had taken a civilian post with the Royal Navy in Liverpool. The butler, Mrs. Smith, George the gardener, and a handful of very young chambermaids were the only ones left.
“We also blacked out the windows in the former nursery and the schoolroom where the children will sleep,” Mrs. Smith added.
Audrey’s nerves jangled like a thousand bells at the reminder. “Is everything ready for their arrival?”
“I believe so.”
Audrey had no idea what to expect. An unknown number of children of undetermined ages and family backgrounds would arrive from London by train this afternoon to be housed in the village. The newspapers had called it “an exodus of biblical proportions” with more than 800,000 schoolchildren and 100,000 teachers billeted in the English countryside. Every family was taking in a child or two, and Audrey realized they might be expected to house several at Wellingford Hall. Perhaps as many as ten? Fifteen? Audrey’s mother wanted nothing to do with the scheme and decided to take her chances in London, vowing to continue with some semblance of her normal life there, war or no war.
Audrey and Mrs. Smith worked with the local branch of the Women’s Institute in the village to prepare cots and bedding for the children. They had closed off as many formal rooms and spare bedrooms as possible, storing Wellingford’s valuables. The work had been exhausting but fulfilling. Audrey much preferred being mistress of Wellingford Hall over life in London, where streetlights and automobile headlamps weren’t allowed, and the streets were so black at night that it was hazardous to venture out. She had no desire to sit in the darkened town house with Mother, waiting for the bombs to fall, as they surely would.
Alfie had driven to Wellingford Hall to say goodbye, and it had been one of the worst moments in Audrey’s life. Their father’s, too, she suspected. Father mentioned a possible draft exemption for Alfie but he’d refused. Fear for her brother drove Audrey to her knees beside her bed at night and to the village church to pray on Sunday. Eve Dawson had always known so much more about God than she did, and Audrey wished she could talk to her about her faith. No doubt Eve was praying for Alfie, too. At least they were united in that.
Mrs. Smith bustled away again, leaving Audrey alone in the huge dining room. The children wouldn’t eat in here, of course, but perhaps someone would—someday. Audrey knew it was irrational, but she wanted to keep the room ready for guests, just in case. Beyond the French doors, the beautiful formal gardens looked as they always had, with neatly trimmed boxwood hedges and the last of the summer roses blooming. The gravel walkways formed intricate geometric designs that bisected the gardens and encircled the fountain in the center. “One would never know we’re at war,” she murmured as she stepped outside.
The war was bringing countless changes to Audrey’s life, and she hated change. This orderly garden had become her place of refuge, her one quiet place of retreat. But even as she walked the peaceful paths, she heard the ominous drone of airplanes overhead. She looked up, shading her eyes against the sun’s glare. The droning grew louder, closer. The planes flew low in the sky, three of them, and she released her breath when she saw the RAF insignia. They’re ours.
Back inside, she found Robbins in the entrance hall, returned from his walk into the village. “I arranged for a wagon to transport the children and their baggage, Miss Audrey.” He mopped his brow, then tugged his waistcoat into place. “Horse-drawn, I’m afraid, but it was the best I could do. You’ll need to speak with Mr. Grayson, the station porter.”